Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Twice a year, for so many years I've lost track, the four of us go to the Ivy to celebrate our birthdays. Val and I take first position in January. Kyle and Elena come next in March. We order the same thing every time: grilled veggie/chicken salad. We sit among the rich folk, the occasional celebrities. One year there was Meg Ryan lunching with George Clooney. Another year, Mary Tyler Moore. Some years we hit it big, some not at all. Now we forget names. "There's that French guy with the ponytail... he's on Top Chef a lot." We look over quickly, return to our warm bread rolls. As the years go by, the famous ones matter less. It's our own lives we'd rather dissect. We talk and talk, we laugh and open gifts. We go home happy and full. We met in junior high, the four of us. Emerson Jr. High. The early '70s. We started 7th grade together, the first year girls were allowed to wear jeans to school; the first year of busing. The four of us, we got through it all, somehow, thanks to each other. The early disasters, the growing pains. We've been there and done that a few times over:

Virginity. Lost virginity. Raging hormones. Lost hormones. Learning to drive. Learning to let go. Weight loss. Weight gain. Weight Watchers. First dates. First cars. First apartments. First houses. First everything. College. New guys. The same guys. Men. Good ones. Questionable ones. The best ones of all. Falling in love and out of love. Finding love again.

About Me

I'm a writer: TV movies, plays, humor blogs. I'm the mother of two amazing sons, so menschy I could weep with pride, and often do, spontaneously. I'm a remarkably loving wife. I'm a crazy dog lady. I'm a kugel-maker. I'm a champion kvetch. At this point, everything hurts.